[Closed Post: A Pit of Clay]

[timebethine]

Laertes has settled on building a cross-draft kiln--but for that, he'll need to fire bricks, and to make bricks, of course, he'll need clay. He's finished sifting the clay he'd dug from the shore of the lake, and now all that remains is to get it into a state that will bear shaping and firing. The tool room had a couple of bags of sand and a smaller sack of bauxite alumina ready for use; those will help the kiln bricks to withstand the great heat of a long firing.

It's a grey day, and the scent of clay is rich in Laertes's nostrils. Smells always get stronger right before he has a migraine, and a part of him wants to call off this whole project and hide in bed to wait out the impending ache--but he isn't hurting yet; his vision isn't starting to shimmer yet. The wind off the lake is bracing, redolent with the rich, spice-and-rot scent of fallen leaves.

There's time enough to pull off his boots and socks, roll up his jeans, and dig in.

Comments

[sagramore]

He gives Laertes an approving look, his eyes darkening. He doesn't need too much time to prepare himself; he's relaxed, his muscles slack from the warmth of the bath, and he's mindful of not having infinite time before Laertes' migraine strikes. Soon enough his hand is on Laertes' cock, slicking him up for use, and then he lowers himself down, letting his breath out in a long shaky exhale as he's filled.

[timebethine]

Laertes's hands fall to his sides, curling into fists. His eyes close, at first; Sagramore sinks down on him like the lassitude of a hot bath, the flush of drunkenness, and for a moment every sensation is warm and clear and perfect. Laertes lets himself be still. Every exhalation feels like the last--as though bubbles must drift up from his lips toward the distant surface of consciousness, and break. But then he breathes in again, and the smells of myrrh and mint and sex are heavy on the air.

[sagramore]

He fucks himself on Laertes with an energy he hadn't quite expected himself to have, not after the exertion of the clay-making; but the burn of pushing his body up, until he's on the verge of letting Laertes slip out of him, and then swallowing him back again into his own heat and tightness is wildly satisfying. Laertes is his, his charge and his servant, his beautiful, brave, clever, unmatchable husband, and Sagramore would give him the world -- it's nothing to give him this. He uses Laertes' cock as if Laertes had been made for this purpose alone.

[timebethine]

Laertes's eyes flutter open; he gazes up at Sagramore, crouched over him with heat in his gaze and purpose hollowing out his face, and it feels as though his veins are laced with white-hot flame. He raises his hands, ready to take Sagramore by the hips--then he remembers himself, and lays his hands flat on the blankets again. He can ask nothing. He can do nothing. He is permitted only to be, and to feel, and to look upon Sagramore with that ardent fire blazing in his eyes.

[sagramore]

At some point, in spite of himself, he shifts his weight to one hand so he can touch Laertes with the other. He caresses Laertes' jaw, smooth and fragrant with lotion, his throat, his chest, filled with a love and gratitude that he couldn't, in this moment, try to express.

When he finally comes, it feels dizzying. He sees silver and sparks in his vision as he sinks onto his hands.

[timebethine]

Laertes is not permitted to speak, not permitted to touch--but surely it's all right to tilt his head forward a little, to rest his brow against Sagramore's.

[sagramore]

He nuzzles into Laertes' face, breathing hard. "Christ-- canst touch me now, an thou wouldst, thou hast my leave."

[timebethine]

Immediately, Laertes wraps his arms around Sagramore's chest in an crushing hug. He nuzzles back, grinning hard, dropping breathless kisses across Sagramore's cheeks. (There's a pressure building behind his right eye, but it's still faint enough that he can ignore it.)

[sagramore]

"Jesu, thou art the best of men," he murmurs; he lets his body sink down against Laertes'. "O, my heart."

[timebethine]

"That was like nothing else," says Laertes--low, fervent. "I love so well to be thine. I love thee with every thread and fiber in me."

[sagramore]

"Thou art magnificent. There's no task I set thee to that thou canst not do, thou splendid thing. Unmatchable." He strokes back Laertes' still damp hair.

[timebethine]

And ordinarily he would protest--it was a little thing he did; all he had to do was lie still and wait--but right now, he is flush with Sagramore's faith in him, and he accepts the praise as his due. "At times I let myself forget how much I want this," says Laertes, a little softer. He digs his fingertips into Sagramore's back, massaging in slow circles. "But when I have it, I want nothing else."

[sagramore]

"I love to give it to thee," softly. "I love to have thee shuck off all thy self and thy worry and be only mine, to let me choose all things for thee and use thee as I will. Thou art so good."

[timebethine]

"I feel it," says Laertes, just as soft. He lays a kiss beneath Sagramore's ear, light but lingering, almost prayerful.

[sagramore]

Sagramore smiles at him, and eases off him with a wince to lie beside him, gathering him into his arms.

[timebethine]

That wince puts a faint line of worry between Laertes's brows; he curls closer, touching Sagramore's cheek, asking, "Art well?"

[sagramore]

"Aye, well," pressing a kiss to his brow. "Between thy clay and thy prick I've been worked hard today." It's gently playful: clearly not any kind of reproach.

[timebethine]

"Thou hast. Poor man, worked to the bone to please thy husband! Hen-pecked--or is it cock-pecked?"

[sagramore]

"By a bold cock! But I'll permit thee to peck and crow. I know 'tis only thy nature."

[timebethine]

"Does it please thee, to be drawn into so many projects?" Laertes asks--not as though he truly doubts it, but as though he seeks reassurance that it's true.

[sagramore]

"It does." He brushes through Laertes' hair with his fingertips. "It doesn't suit me to be idle, really -- I like that thou art always after new things, and I like to follow thee to them, and I like that I can aid thee."

[timebethine]

"My dear helpmeet," Laertes says, still quiet. The ache is growing, expanding outward from that point behind his eye as though someone is inflating a bladder there; he makes a little sound of discomfort and buries his face beneath Sagramore's chin.

[sagramore]

"Let me get the light, and come right back to thee."

[timebethine]

Laertes nods a little, and lets him go. He's grateful that at least he's not managing both a migraine and that steep fall that comes sometimes after being owned; he thinks that the two together would surely crush him. He turns his head into the pillow, but it smells of soap so heavily that nausea bubbles up in his gut.

Sometimes, a migraine will be a low, rumbling headache for hours before it whips itself into a tempest--but today, the tempest is bearing down on him from a cloudless sky. He can feel it pushing at his brain, crowding out pleasure, making even the soft cotton of the blankets almost too much to bear.

[sagramore]

Sagramore turns out the lights and turns back to the bed -- he'd thought to clean them up a little, but seeing the tension in Laertes' body he decides against it. He draws the curtains at the window instead and then comes to the bed.

"Is there anything else thou needst first, or shall I lie with thee now?"